


Fair Trade

by Anonymous



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dark Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Drugged Sex, F/M, Forced Marriage, Groping, Non-Consensual Touching, Somnophilia, Unconsciousness, Virgin Sacrifice, not quite as bad as these tags make it sound IMO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9257723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Rumplestiltskin, terrorizing the local villages for fun, is amused when they resort to an old method of appeasement - the sacrifice of a virgin.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, you all. I started out thinking this was a total AU and ended up feeling like I basically arrived at their canon relationship haha.

The girl was naked and bound, her cheeks wet with tears. They had chained her wrists above her head, and now she sagged from the restraints like a drooping flower.

Rumple could picture her, dragged from her bed, her father weeping in the background. Her screams as some thug cut away her clothes, cut short by the rags forced into her mouth and bound tight around her head. Her muffled cries as her wrists were secured with coarse rope, as she was pulled by a leash of hemp through the town.

All to be brought here, to the place where virgins used to be sacrificed to the ogres – trussed up as an offering, wrists above her head, ankles chained wide apart, exposed like a whore, and abandoned.  

Why had they picked her, he wondered idly. She must be different than the other village girls. An outsider.                       

Rumple wondered what would happen if he just left her here. Would the humans come back for her once they realized their proposed trade wouldn’t be accepted? Or would they just leave her to starve to death?  

He ignored her for the first twelve hours, as an experiment. Of course, it was cold, and the wind was fearsome, but that was no concern of his. Perhaps he checked his scrying glass a few times – just to see if she’d escaped, or been rescued, or died.     

All that happened was that her broken cries died down, her feeble struggles ceased, and her body turned slowly ivory-pale.

She made a pretty picture, he could admit, there in the silver surface of the glass. The pink rose lips, cleaved by a strip of dirty cotton. Her small pert breasts and her creamy neck, offset by the dark tangled spill of her hair.

Without quite planning to do it, he disappeared in a puff of smoke and reappeared before her on the high grassy plain where she was displayed.

"Well, dearie, it looks like nobody is coming for you but me."

The girl did not wake. The body had some recourse, even in extremity, and in her hunger, thirst and humiliation, this little lamb had slipped somewhere beyond the suffering that awaited it at the shambles. 

No doubt the ogres would like have consumed her alive – naked and beautiful meant little to them, when their females most closely resembled a pile of boulders. Their victims were traditionally stripped only to prevent indigestion.

But Rumplestiltskin had ... other appetites.

Without shame he reached to measure her breasts in his hand – full and smooth, a pleasing weight – and then pushed her white thighs apart, aware that he truly was a beast. Her womanhood fit easily into his palm. She was beautiful here too, the dark nest of hair, her soft outer lips, the shy mount of her pleasure. She was definitely still alive, and her core retained some heat – he slipped in a finger to check, resting thoughtfully against the thin barrier of her virginity.

He could have her this way, without ever untying her, and then leave her besmirched and despoiled. He doubted she would even wake for it.

With his magic he could feel the sickness spreading through in her body, from being left exposed so long. To his Inner Eye it appeared as a dark cloud blotting out her youthful vitality, like the smoke of a curse.

The poor little maid.

He slid his finger in a little deeper, and her eyelashes fluttered, close to his shoulder. Her soft exhale fluttered over his cheek.

"Hello, my dear," he murmured, stroking her softly.

He would have her, he decided – but not here, like this, with her limbs half frozen and her pale face drooping on her breast. No, he would warm her, heal her, and then spread her over the rich red sheets of his little-used bed. When he entered her, she would reach for him, yielding her body up for his pleasure - he, her master and deliverer. Her soft moans would be those of gratification, her shivers and struggles would not be from bewilderment and cold.

Rumple found that he was filled with incongruous, unfamiliar desires. Having found her naked and half dead, he wanted to dress her in ermine and feed her a lavish feast. She came to him abandoned, destitute, and he wanted to make her a Queen. _His_ queen.

He pushed his magic into her, from the finger buried in her cunt. He could feel it rising through her body, heating her, driving out the illness.

She moaned softly, the dirty rag in her mouth muffling any protests she could make. Rumple would untie that – when they were home. He would coax those soft lips to receive restoring water, healthful foods – and then his tongue, plunged into that velvet cavern, and then his prick, and she would receive it all. She would have him deep in any place he could ask of her, until she was rosy and full.

How prettily she would bow to him, in full, beautiful skirts - which he would ruck up around her waist, when he had his way with her, bent over his throne.

How lovely she would look, on her knees before him, while he placed a glowing crown upon her head. These pale fingers, waxy and limp now, would be wreathed with rings - _his_ rings.

His _wife_.

With a snap, he released her from her bonds – she slumped, helpless as a child. He covered her nakedness with his own thick-furred quilt, tucking it tight around her nerveless limbs. With the ever-present aid of his magic it was the work of a thought to lift her.

Then Rumplestiltskin bore the beauty away to his own dark tower. Leaving only the lonely post with its empty chains to signal that the bargain had been received and accepted.


	2. Chapter 2

Rumplestiltskin brought the girl – now shifting restlessly against him, making faint stifled sounds of confusion – to the highest room in the dark tower.

There he laid her carefully on the bed, her head cradled by a soft pillow.

She was barely awake, her big eyes hazy in confusion; it was the first time he had seen their color. Like the rest of her, they were beautiful.

He wasn't sure but thought she might be trying to talk, pathetic whimpers, her tongue trapped by the dirty rags tied cruelly tight behind her head, the ends tangled in her hair.

He ran a thumb along her cheekbone, then placed a warning finger over her lips. "Let’s leave that in for now, hmm dearie? No sniveling. I need you to be nice and quiet for me while we get you situated."

She blinked, her eyelids obviously heavy. Laid flat, no longer jostled about, she soon sank deeply back into sleep, her body exhausted after all she had endured.

He liked to think it was because she knew she was home.

He unwrapped her slowly from the folds of his cloak until she was naked and still.

So this was the little maid he had claimed as his own, hmm? A pretty little poppet, to be sure. With a wave, Rumplestiltskin sent cleansing magic over every inch of her body – even her teeth were minty clean. "There, that’s better, isn’t it my dear? A little more comfortable, aren’t we."

The girl, of course, could not reply, but he felt the strange desire to talk to her anyway.

He thought about dressing her – it would be the effort of a moment, with his magic – but now that they were alone and safe, it seemed right that she should be bared before him. She was _his,_ after all. Her people had given her to him to do whatever he wanted with. Kill her, fuck her, sell her, pull out her fingernails for potions – they had offered it all up. All for the pitiable price of sparing their sad little village from his fun and games. Well, he would spare them all right – a deal was a deal – but little did they know his very presence had been sheltering the valley from far worse things than a couple magical experiments.

Let them learn.

"My own," he murmured, letting his eyes drink in the sight of his lovely prize.

He bent over her slowly and lowered his mouth to one of her breasts, those little dollops of cream that taunted him. It was cool under his tongue, but he felt her nipple tightening into a hard little knot. He lathed at it, then sucked _hard_. She arched beautifully, still asleep, offering her chest for more. He switched sides and obliged.

With one hand under each of her white knees he guided the girl’s legs open, spreading her wide for him. He liked to survey his property.

He stroked a finger over her tender nub, enjoying her soft groan of pleasure. She was already wet down here, her plentiful lubricant soaking her dark, soft curls. She liked his touch, he reflected proudly, she reacted to it. As she should. He bent between her spread legs, catching her scent, fresh and pure.

Better to not, he reflected, withdrawing. Some things were better for the anticipation. 

Instead he rubbed healing herbal ointment into her poor arms, which were no doubt stiff from being trapped over her head for so long. She might have suffered permanent damage without his assiduous care. Then he lifted her head in his hand, carefully supporting her neck while he untied the knotted rag that had been used to silence her. They had trapped her hair in it, perhaps as she struggled. It must have pulled.

He drew the dirty fabric out from between her lips, then guided her mouth open to extract the damp cloth that had been forced inside. "That must have been very uncomfortable, dearie," he consoled her, patting her pale cheek. "I’m sure you feel a lot better now, hmm?" He guided a cup of water to her lips, coaxing her to drink.

Her dark hair fanned around her face when he set her back against the pillows. He couldn't resist combing it back from her face. It was as soft as silk underneath his palm.

"Ah, pretty thing," he murmured, stroking a finger over her bruised lips. "I’ll take such good care of you. You’ll never want for a thing. I’ll make you so happy. I promise I’ll make you happy, darling. Won’t you wake up for me, now?"

But she did not wake.

That night the girl descended into fever. Rumplestiltskin hesitated to dose her with more magic, so soon after he had healed her from near death; it could cause terrible reactions in people who weren’t used to it.

Instead he stayed by her side, cooling her brow with a damp cloth and trying to keep her quiet. Sometimes she woke, briefly, and looked around in confusion - but he soothed her as best he could, promising that she was safe now, that he would protect her, that she would never be cold or hungry or frightened again. Most of all he urged her to rest, rest so that she could grow stronger and throw off this illness.

Sometimes she stared at him, uncomprehending, but usually she would close her eyes when he coaxed her to and return to sleep. _She trusted him_ , Rumplestiltskin realized with something like astonishment. She was calm at the sight of him even though his appearance – glittery, with scales – should have thrown her into panic. Perhaps she knew on some level that he had rescued her, that her own people, although that had more pleasing faces perhaps, were even more monstrous than he.

Once, awakened from a nightmare, she reached for him, gasping, her eyes full of tears – and he had received her tenderly, drawing her into his arms and stroking her pretty hair, crooning pacifying nonsense until she drooped against him, unconscious once again.

She smelled of roses, and the warm, trusting weight of her in his arms was enough to move even his bitter black heart.

At least a little.

 

\---

 

Belle dreamed that she was standing at the altar next to the hero from her favorite storybook. Everyone in the village was there, and her father, so proud, so happy.

_Do you promise to love, honor and obey?_

"Say yes, my dearest." Instead of the deep, manly voice she pictured the Prince possessing, this was thin and high – but very tender, and she could feel his hand smoothing her hair, and she understood that Prince loved her very much. “Say Yes.”

“Yes,” said Belle, obedient - and was rewarded by the soft press of lips over her own – cool lips, and dry – and a warm tongue pressed into her mouth. She could barely stir herself to return the kiss, she felt so strange and weak. But in a moment it was over, and she felt herself lifted and cradled in surprisingly strong arms.

She managed to look down at herself and found that she was dressed in a beautiful old fashioned gown, all snowy white lace, with a glittering chain of diamonds wreathed around her neck and her wrists. She watched, uncomprehending, as strange fingers – they looked almost _green_ \- slid a heavy gold ring onto the third finger of her left hand. She turned it in the light to see that it glinted with massive, sparkling stones.

“There now, my dear,” said the prince – it must be the prince – carrying her up the stairs to lay her gently on a deep wine colored bed. Her limbs were so heavy that she could hardly move at all.

“My beautiful wife,” said the same voice, and Belle wished so much that she could open her eyes, try to make sense of any of this – but she could not, she was too tired. She must have been through something terrible, she thought blearily. She felt as though she must have been close to death, to leave her so weak.

“Shh, my dearest one, you’ll be better soon. You just need to regain your strength. You’ve had a terrible fever, and I was afraid to put anymore magic into you.”

Magic? The Prince was also a sorcerer? Belle tossed her head, frightened – but someone took her hand and squeezed it soothingly, and thin lips pressed kisses to her palm. “You’ll be alright, my love – my wife. My lovely wife.”

Belle had a heart that was very hungry for love, after long years growing up isolated and lonely. She worked to turn her hand to cradle the cheek of her beloved prince, who had rescued her from that life. The skin under her hand was rough, and cold to the touch.

"No more sad thoughts, sweet one. It's our wedding night, after all."

The dress opened in the front, and she felt his knuckles against her collarbone as he unlaced it. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, she realized in confusion – no under-shift, no petticoats, no pantaloons. The folds of her pretty dress were pushed away, and she moaned softly at the knowledge that her breasts were exposed to his eyes, as well as the secret place between her legs. She trembled, both with cold and with confusion.

"It’s alright, my dear," said the soft voice, stroking her side, down her ribs, her belly, her hips. Belle gasped as his touch left her skin tingling. He pressed her thighs apart and Belle shuddered as she felt his eyes open her _there_ , a place she had never seen herself, nor shown to anyone.

"Oh," she gasped, reaching a hand to cover herself – a hand that was caught, and kissed, and guided down to her side and held there.

"It’s alright, my dear," he whispered. "You’re my wife, my own, and it’s my right to see you this way. It’s my right to touch you here."

He bent over her – she looked down to watch the top of his head descend – and then – oh Gods! – his wet mouth pressed hungrily against her cunny, his tongue sliding straight into her nethers as if she were a delectable feast. Belle was too weak to do more than thrash faintly, spread open to his sight, with his hot mouth latching onto her pleasure button. It was disgusting – how could he – but she couldn’t deny that it sent waves of sharp, almost painful heat through her body, as he licked at her tender places.

"You taste so good," he crooned, diving in deeper while she groaned. "Like - honey ... salt ... and rosewater ..."

Belle arched up, a wordless gasp, and felt her deep internal muscles begin to contract, clenching down around nothing. He stroked her through it, slow and steady.

"That’s my beautiful girl," he hummed, leaning back and taking her under the thighs to tip her up higher. She felt utterly debauched this way, lying limp against the pillows, naked before him.

She heard him fumbling with his clothes, and then something hot and damp probed between her legs. She whimpered but didn't dream of pulling away.

"Yes, you will learn to love having me here," said the stranger – her husband – easing forward, and she was so very wet and open after his mouth that he fit easily inside, with none of the pain that Belle had learned to expect on her wedding night. She was too exhausted to be anything more than relaxed and open, swallowing him down so easily that she was almost ashamed.

"You were made for this, for me," he murmured, still pushing deeper into her, and Belle let him do it, moaning softly as her virginity was truly claimed.

He paused only when he was buried as deep as he could go – she could feel his hips against the inside her thighs – before he began to move, slowly at first and then gaining confidence, with a little half-hitch every other stroke that reminded her of footprints she heard in her dreams, a man with a limp.

She was jolted by each of his thrusts, too weak to sit up or push back, but it felt good too, his warm, wet push inside of her, her soft yielding body. The sounds were indescribable – sloppy, sinful slapping, and his bitten off growls, and the gentle _oh –oh-oh_ that she realized were her own.

"My beauty," he hissed. "Mine, mine, _mine!_ "

He bent over her, buried his face in her neck, and she felt his teeth against her collarbone – the angle let him get deeper, deeper, and then one of his clever hands drifted down her body and pressed between her legs, plucking and rubbing the firm little knot that it found there.

His teeth broke her skin at the same moment that her body clamped down around his hardness, wiping her mind blank.

For a long time after that she floated, barely feeling his release inside of her, barely hearing his muttered words of ownership and praise. He cleaned her body carefully, and pressed some kind of glowing vial to her lips. Almost senseless now with exhaustion, Belle drank.

A palm draped over her eyes, guiding them closed, while another one stroked her forehead. Her limbs were so heavy that she could hardly move at all, and she found it impossible to resist the hands that were steadying her down to a deep sleep.

"Yes, my dear, rest," he whispered, kissing her lax lips. "And dream of our happy ever after."

That night Belle dreamed of fire, and dark purple smoke. 

 

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not planning on writing any more because from here I assume it turns into canon, with Rumple being kind of a jerk and Belle deciding if she can live with it. But it was fun to dip into this world one last time :)


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